The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 402, Supplementary Number (1829)

"During the whole of this time the sound of walking over-head never ceased for one moment. The heavy tread was unabated: there was not the least interval of repose, nor could a pendulum have been more regular in its motions. Had there been any relaxation, any pause, any increase or any diminution of rapidity in the footsteps, they would have been endurable; but there was no such thing; the same deadening monotonous, stupifying sound continued, like clock-work, to operate incessantly above their heads. Nor was there any abatement of the storm without; the wind blowing among the trees of the cemetery in a sepulchral moan; the rain beating against the panes of glass with the impetuous loudness of hail; and lightning and thunder flashing and pealing at brief intervals through the murky firmament. The noise of the elements was indeed frightful; and it was heightened by the voice of the sable steed, like that of a spirit of darkness; but the whole, as we have just hinted, was as nothing to the deep, solemn, mysterious treading of the Red Man."

The party argue themselves into the belief that he is indeed the enemy of mankind.

"'If more proof is wanting,' resumed the parson, after a pause, 'only look to his dress. What Christian would think of travelling about the country in red? It is a type of the hell-fire from which he is sprung.' 'Did you observe his hair hanging down his back like a bunch of carrots?' asked the exciseman. 'Such a diabolical glance in his eye!' said the schoolmaster. 'Such a voice!' added the landlord: 'it is like the sound of a cracked clarionet.' 'His feet are not cloven,' observed the landlady. 'No matter,' exclaimed the landlord, 'the devil, when he chooses, can have as good legs as his neighbours.' 'Better than some of them,' quoth the lady, looking peevishly at the lower limbs of her husband. Meanwhile the incessant treading continued unabated, although two long hours had passed since its commencement. There was not the slightest cessation to the sound, while out of doors the storm raged with violence, and in the midst of it the hideous neighing and stamping of the black horse were heard with pre-eminent loudness. At this time the fire of the kitchen began to burn low; the sparkling blaze was gone, and in its stead nothing but a dead red lustre emanated from the grate. One candle had just expired, having burned down to the socket; of the one which remained, the unsnuffed wick was nearly three inches in length, black and crooked at the point, and standing like a ruined tower amid an envelopement of sickly yellow flame; while around the fire's equally decaying lustre sat the frightened coterie, narrowing their circle as its brilliancy faded away, and eyeing each other like apparitions amidst the increasing gloom.

"At this time the clock of the steeple struck the hour of midnight, and the tread of the stranger suddenly ceased. There was a pause for some minutes—afterwards a rustling—then a noise as of something drawn along the floor of his room. In a moment thereafter his door opened; then it shut with violence, and heavy footsteps were heard trampling down the stair. The inmates of the kitchen shook with alarm as the tread came nearer. They expected every moment to behold the Red Man enter, and stand before them in his native character. The landlady fainted outright: the exciseman followed her example: the landlord gasped in an agony of terror: and the schoolmaster uttered a pious ejaculation for the behoof of his soul. Dr. Poundtext was the only one who preserved any degree of composure. He managed, in a trembling voice, to call out 'Avaunt, Satan! I exorcise thee from hence to the bottom of the Red Sea!' 'I am going, as fast as I can,' said the stranger, as he passed the kitchen-door on his way to the open air. His voice aroused the whole conclave from their stupor. They started up, and by a simultaneous effort rushed to the window. There they beheld the tall figure of a man, enveloped in a black cloak, walking across the yard on his way to the stable. He had on a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, top-boots, with enormous spurs, and carried a gigantic whip in one hand, and a portmanteau in the other. He entered the stable, remained there about three minutes, and came out leading forth his fiery steed thoroughly accoutred. In the twinkling of an eye he got upon his back, waved his hand to the company, who were surveying him through the window, and clapping spurs to his charger, galloped off furiously, with a hideous and unnatural laugh, through the midst of the storm.

"On going up stairs to the room which the devil had honoured with his presence, the landlord found that his infernal majesty had helped himself to every thing he could lay his hands upon, having broken into his desk and carried off twenty-five guineas of king's money, a ten pound Bank of England note, and sundry articles, such as seals, snuff-boxes, &c. Since that time he has not been seen in these quarters, and if he should, he will do well to beware of Doctor Poundtext, who is a civil magistrate as well as a minister, and who, instead of exorcising him to the bottom of the Red Sea, may perhaps exorcise him to the interior of Leicester gaol, to await his trial before the judges of the midland circuit."

Next is the Omen, by Mr. Galt, a powerful sketch. Affixed to St. Feinah's Tree, a Legend of Loch Neagh, we notice the signature of an esteemed correspondent, (M.L.B.) whose taste and ingenuity entitle her to high rank among the contributors to the present work. Kemp, the Bandit, by Delta, is an interesting tale; Life and Shade, a Portuguese Sketch, by Mrs. M. Baillie, is in her best narrative style; and Seeking the Houdy, by the Ettrick Shepherd, is in his happiest familiar vein. The curiosity of the volume, and indeed, the only poetical contribution we have room to notice, is the following lines of Lord Byron, written in his boyhood, to "Mary," (Mrs. Musters,) about a year before her marriage:—

 
Adieu to sweet Mary for ever;
From her I must quickly depart;
Though the Fates us from each other sever,
Still her image will dwell in my heart.
 
 
The flame that within my heart burns,
Is unlike what in lovers hearts glows;
The love which for Mary I feel,
Is far purer than Cupid bestows.
 
 
I wish not your peace to disturb,
I wish not your joys to molest,
Mistake not my passion for Love,
'Tis your friendship alone I request.
 
 
Not ten thousand lovers could feel
The friendship my bosom contains;
It will ever within my heart dwell,
While the warm blood flows through my veins.
 
 
May the ruler of heaven look down,
And my Mary from evil defend;
Mny she ne'er know adversity's frown,
May her happiness ne'er have an end.
 
 
Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu;
Farewell; I with anguish repeat,
For ever I'll think upon you,
While this heart in my bosom shall beat.
 

The Editor has subjoined a note, explaining his reason for printing these "schoolboy rhymes," which, of course, is not for their literary merit; still, in comparison with many of Lord Byron's after productions, what the present want of head, others lack of heart, and this is a home truth which his warmest admirers must acknowledge.

The Illustrations are varied and interesting. One of them—the Death of the Dove, engraved by W. Finden, from a picture by T. Stewardson, is remarkably expressive. The Ghaut, by E. Finden, after W. Daniell, is an exquisite Oriental scene. The Frontispiece, Wilkie's Spanish Princess, is finely engraved by R. Greaves; and Mr. H. Le Keux has done ample justice to the Plâce de Jeanne d'Arc, Rouen, from a picturesque drawing, by S. Prout: the lights and shadows being very effectively managed. But we must be chary of our room, as we have other claimants at hand.

THE JUVENILE FORGET-ME-NOT

This little work is a sort of protegé of The Forget-Me-Not, and is by the same editor. It contains fifty pieces in verse and prose, and eight pleasing plates and a vignette—all which will please the little folks more than our description of them would their elders. Nearly all of them contain several figures, but one—The Riding School—about twenty boys playing at Soldiers, horse and foot, very pleasantly illustrates an observation in a recent number of the Edinburgh Review, on the dramatic character of the amusements of children. The scene is a large, ancient, dilapidated building, and the little people personate the Duke of Wellington, the Marquess of Anglesea, &c., with all the precision of military tactics—but no one has a taste for being a private. So it is through life.

Our extract is almost a literary curiosity:

"THE INVALID'S PIPE. ²

"It was not far from the Castle of Fürstenstein, near the spot where the gallant Blucher, with the brave army of Silesia, won such glory, that the Baron of Fürstenstein met a maimed soldier, who was endeavouring to reach Berlin to claim his pension, and whose age denoted that his wounds had long been his honourable though painful companions. The Baron, observing a very richly mounted pipe in the old man's possession, accosted him with, 'God bless you, old soldier! does your pipe comfort you this morning?' The pipe which the old soldier was smoking was made of a curious sort of porcelain, and mounted with gold. The Baron wondered to see so costly a pipe in the old soldier's possession, and wishing to purchase it from him, said, 'My friend! what shall I give you for your pipe?'

"'Oh, sir!' replied the soldier, shaking his head, 'this pipe I can never part with; it was the gift of the bravest of men, who took it from a Turkish Bashaw at the battle of Belgrade. There, sir, thanks to Prince Eugene, we obtained noble spoils—there, where our troops so bravely destroyed the Turkish squadrons.'

"'Talk another time of your exploits, my friend,' said the nobleman; 'here take this double ducat, and give me your pipe; I feel an insurmountable wish to possess it.'

"'I am a poor man, sir, and have nothing to live upon but my pension; yet I would not part with this pipe for all the gold that you possess. Listen, sir, and I will relate to you the story of this pipe, which is remarkable, or my poverty would long ere now have induced me to sell it:—As we Hussars were charging over the enemy, a shot from the ranks of the Janissaries pierced our noble captain through the breast; I caught him in my arms, placed him on my horse, and carried him out of the confusion of the battle. It was an irresistible sensation of gratitude that prompted me to do so, for he had once rescued me when I was wounded and taken prisoner. I watched over him to the latest moment; and a few moments before his death, he gave me his purse and this pipe, then pressed my hand and breathed his last sigh. Heroic spirit! never shall I forget him!'

"As he thus spoke, the tears fell fast from the old man's eyes; but he soon recovered himself, and proceeded—'The money I gave to the worthy landlord under whose roof he died, and who had been thrice plundered by the enemy; the pipe I kept as a sacred remembrance of the brave. In every situation, and through all the vicissitudes of my life, I have taken care to preserve it as a sacred relic, whether pursuing or retreating from the enemy; and when it was not in use, I placed it for safety withing my boot. At the battle of Prague, a cannon-ball unfortunately carried my right leg and pipe away together. My first thought was to secure the safety of my pipe, for at the moment I felt but little pain, and then–'

"'Stop, soldier; your story is too affecting! O tell me, I entreat you, who was the brave man, that I may also honour and respect his memory?'

"'His name was Walter von Fürstenstein; and I have heard that his family was of Silesia, and that his estates lay in that province.'

"'Gracious God!' ejaculated the nobleman, 'he was my father! and the estates you mention, good old man, are now mine. Come, friend, forget all your sorrows, and live with me under that same Walter's roof whom you so faithfully served; and come and eat of Walter's bread, and partake of that comfort which your age demands, and which my gratitude for your services to the best of fathers is ready to bestow. I am too deeply affected to say more at present; enter this mansion, where you shall repose in peace for the remainder of your life!'

"'Thanks, noble sir, I accept your generous charity; the son of Walter von Fürstenstein is worthy of such a father. Here, sir, take this relic (presenting the pipe)—it is a memorial of that Providence which has so miraculously conducted me from the father to the son.'

"The pipe still remains hung up among the family trophies in the Castle of Fürstenstein."